The option

I will stop saying you are absent
because I am calling to a rocket
when I smell the exhaust's fumes

wasting away like youth,
like the ends of the earth
chiseled to its core- that's what remains
in conversation and passing greetings

I promise to stop reaching for the shallowness
Maybe I should stop sending you mail
maybe I should stop coloring my world orange,
the color of missing, the hues of the leaves that crunch
under my head when there's only you inside
on a windy morning

Maybe missing is not about degree
maybe we cannot measure how much one
of us misses, or if one feels absence at all
perhaps measures are set for things, non-human

and because missing cannot be measured I leave it in your hand
the only weapon I've been holding against your warm palms,
the option to reach out for mine.